


a-hanging out the linen clothes

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Laundry, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, a lot of laundry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Billy Gibson attends to his duties.Terror bingo fill: ice cap
Relationships: William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	a-hanging out the linen clothes

**Author's Note:**

> So this was for the terror bingo fill 'ice cap', and there's some ice in there but I mostly got distracted by laundry.
> 
> It's vaguely a sequel to 'The Likely Prospect' which was also about Billy and Peglar's friendship, and also dovetails with two other Gibson fics of mine - 'slimey things did crawl with legs, upon the slimey sea', and 'the ring is round & hath no end, so is my love for thy'. But it stands alone ok, I think. Anyway.
> 
> Billy Gibson - I just think he's neat.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you Kt_fairy for reading this (two and a half times!) and making sure it all makes sense!

**Summer**

May in the ice is made somewhat less miserable by the milk white sunlight which now pours over the frozen sea - and will do so for six months without respite. This, accompanied by the incremental twitching of the barometer's needle is enough to warrant a change to William Gibson’s weekly routine. 

He is exempt from watch, and has spent the past winter almost entirely below decks, but once the sun reappears and the canvas is taken down, Billy finally finds a solution to his most vexing problem; the Terror lieutenants’ laundry. 

On the journey up from Greenhithe to Greenland he, Genge, and Jopson put up a line between the masts to air out freshly washed shirts, underclothes and other odds and ends to ensure the officers had their uniform clean every Sunday. Since they began snapping icicles from the shrouds this has not been possible. 

On previous voyages his only concern was the laundering of his own shirts, for which Billy used salt water, which was always in ready supply. He realises how fortunate he has been that until now his postings always took him to warm climates, where he could dry out for an hour in the sunshine. 

Alas, in the Arctic, where he is responsible for the entire wardrobes of three officers, he must melt blocks of ice first in buckets, then drag his tin wash tub somewhere out of the way - Mr Diggle will not have him in the galley and Jopson insists that the pantry is kept clear, so more often than not Billy must use his own berth for this purpose. Here in his solitary alcove he squats with his sleeves rolled up and his arms chapped red to his elbows like an old washerwoman, leaving soapy puddles on the floor which sit for hours afterwards. 

After the rinsing and scrubbing comes the challenge of finding a suitable place to dry the linen. 

In the dark months this was his greatest grievance, for he hadn’t the room in his berth, nor was he permitted to hang anything in the fo’c’sle, and of course the gunroom was out of the question; Armitage fixed him with a truculent glare when he suggested it. 

It was all very well for Jopson; he had permission to hang the captain’s clothes in the great cabin, where there is a brazier and the job was done in an afternoon. Billy, meanwhile, scoured the ship every Saturday in those first winter months for a dry, undisturbed corner. He most often settled on the hold; near the engines where it was hotter than an August in Barbados. He could be no bother to anybody there, as long as he kept his lines clear of the passageways. He did find that he needed to stand guard, though, lest the stokers brush coal dust on Irving’s whites, or Neptune found himself in a playful mood. 

Gibson didn’t mind; it quickly became one of the most pleasant aspects of the expedition so far, spending an undisturbed hour or two curled up in a quiet corner, listening to the racket of men about their work elsewhere in the ship, the scent of carbolic soap and old oak as the ghostly shirts hung steaming gently above him. 

He had already made his way through five editions of _Punch_ before Mr Hickey introduced himself, taking Billy by surprise one afternoon. 

“Got yourself a little parlour down here, Mr Gibson,” he smirked, whipping back a nightshirt. He had his bucket of tar with him and Billy clambered hurriedly to his feet in a panic, but Cornelius’s hands were as clean as his own. “I applaud your ingenuity,” the caulker's mate tilted his head.

It was difficult to tell when Mr Hickey was being sincere or not, for the glimmer of mischief never left his eyes, and everything he said was pure cheek. Billy barely knew him, then. 

Hickey’s eyes flicked up and down, taking Billy in from head to toe. His forehead creased puckishly, “very cosy.”

“These are almost dry,” Billy replied steadily, not sure whether to dismiss Hickey’s gaze or address it, “if you’ve work to do here. I’ll only be a little while longer.”

“Perhaps I’ll wait with you, then,” Hickey grinned, setting down his bucket with a hard metallic clunk on the deck. “Shall I? Shall I keep you company?”

Gibson ought to have known better, perhaps; unlike Hickey he is an experienced seaman who knows the risks. Besides that, Peglar had already warned Billy that Hickey was to be avoided - _trouble_ , he said. _Bold_. 

Only… well, they were quite alone, down there in the muggy dark, and it was awfully difficult to ignore somebody like Cornelius, who was ill-mannered and finicky, a swaggering laggard who seemed always to have something to say about everything and was entirely incapable of minding his own business. Men like that either learn their place or are cowed by the boatswain’s cat, soon enough. Billy has seen it a hundred times, and shouldn’t like to see it again. 

What Cornelius really needed, Billy decided, was some tutoring. A guiding hand - really, he’d be doing the vexsome caulker a great service.

“Well,” Hickey said brightly as he dropped to his knees, Gibson’s prick already swelling in his hand, “knew you’d have a nice big one.”

No service ever came free of charge, not on dry land and not at sea.

But the winter is over now, and while their balmy parlour remains perfectly convenient for their purposes, Billy must admit to himself that the fresh air presents an opportunity to improve the service he provides to his superiors. Pleasing oneself is all very well, but a sailor must take pride in his work, no matter his station. Hard work and resourcefulness are really the only ways a man like Billy can distinguish himself in a place like this. 

He brings his suggestion first to Genge, who has grown dour over the course of the winter and simply shrugs at Billy’s proposal. He tries Jopson next, but the man is too hard to pin down for more than a minute or so, Crozier makes such demands on his attention.

“I think I am glad not to be a captain’s steward,” Billy muses to Peglar as they pass a spare half an hour on the deck, trying to enjoy the clear air. 

It is a fair day, the sky is the same pale blue of forget-me-nots and the sunlight sharp and blinding; glancing off the ice which surrounds them, lending a silver trim to the jagged edges of the icecap. It could be a painting, it is so still out there. This place is a dream world; sometimes it feels like they are nowhere at all. 

Billy looks away and turns inwards, pulling his attention back to the ship, the thud of boots on the black deck as men go about their work; the honest, steady whirr of industry. “It must be tedious to learn the habits of only one man,” he says, “at least the lieutenants have the sense not to be over-particular.”

“I’d be grateful for the occupation,” Peglar replies, glancing wistfully up at the naked masts. “What was your idea?”

“Only to get a line up and air the shirts out properly,” Billy shrugs, “the heat down below does a fine job of drying, but the linen still comes back stinking of whale oil and coal. Lieutenant Hodgson has commented on it more than once.”

“Seek permission, then,” Peglar says cheerfully, “I can help with the rest. Closest I’ll get to rigging in months.”

And that is exactly what they do. The following Saturday Billy washes, scrubs and rinses everything as always, and then he and Peglar haul the tub of wet laundry up onto the weather deck. Peglar is merrier than Billy has seen him in weeks, and that in itself is gratifying. Henry Peglar is a quiet sort, not prone to making any fuss, but on their previous voyages he and Billy have been intimate enough to share confidences and gripes. 

When they were young together, on Wanderer, they were often chastised for talking too much while about their duties, or while lying in their hammocks at night. Billy could always make Peglar laugh, and Peglar had a knack for making any obstacle seem less bothersome. That their careers have taken them on wildly contrasting paths is no surprise to either man; the differences between them have always been both vast and insignificant. 

Of course, Billy has been preoccupied lately.

“What book is it this week, Harry?” He asks, as he straightens his back, rubbing the sorest point above his tail bone. If anything it is a pleasure to stand fully upright once more. 

“Herodotus,” Peglar replies, a coil of rope in his hands as he surveys the deadeyes with a seasoned eye. 

“What’s that?”

“A history of the Greeks. Plenty of battles.”

“Oh,” Gibson nods absently. “Is it interesting?”

“Yes. It’s quite long,” Peglar says, now beginning to thread his line, “but I don’t mind that - I find it difficult to sleep, since the sun came back, do you?”

“No,” Gibson looks out over the ice. It’s another crisp, bright day, he can see clear to Erebus. He wonders if that is why Peglar volunteered to help him. “I sleep all right, but if I’m not working… the boredom, you know, the long nights. I thought I might keep a diary, before we sailed, but I haven’t even begun it.” 

Hickey had laughed, when he told him that.

“Yes, Mr Bridgens keeps one. Commander Fitzjames, too, I hear.”

“You’ve spoken to him, then? John Bridgens?”

“Letters, sometimes.” Peglar says, rather curtly, casting a quick glance about the deck. It is quiet today, but with the cold air so still, sound carries. “Here,” he says, “take this and hold it up for me.” He hands Billy the slack rope and begins walking back across the planks towards the mast to pull it taut and anchor it.

Bridgens is rather dull, as far as Billy is concerned, but they don’t know each other well. He is learned; he reads, and taught Peglar his letters. Perhaps a man like that has poetry in him, perhaps that’s the attraction. His diary must be filled with keen observations of the ice, of the ridges and the deep black nights and the spectral ribbons of light in the sky. 

Billy wonders what Cornelius might write down, if he was that kind of man. Billy would like to read it very much.

“Hold it higher, will you?” Peglar calls, standing a few yards away now, “come on, longshanks, get those arms up!” 

Billy raises the line quickly, watching Peglar stretch up onto his toes to reach. He must have been on duty first thing this morning, holystoning; the knees of his slops are black. The pitchy seams of the planks on deck spoil the sailors' clothes with tar, which is practically impossible to get out.

_“Wouldn’t clean my drawers for me, then?” Hickey asked once, while buttoning up. He takes his time over that, as with everything, as if there is no urgency at all._

_“I serve the officers,” Billy replied, trying to keep his voice low as his heart thrummed in his chest, keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps._

_“You could slip them in, who’d know?”_

_“I would.” Billy said imperiously. He must have looked ridiculous, assuming the moral high ground while he could still feel Cornelius's warm spunk sliding down his thigh._

_“Important to you, in’t it?” Hickey said, giving him a long hard stare, “a job well done?”_

_“Of course,” Billy ducked his head. “Why shouldn’t it be?”_

_“It’s something they need from you,” Cornelius said, “if you didn’t provide for their comfort they’d be no better than the rest of us, making do for ourselves.”_

_“It’s a good position for me to have.” Billy replied, shy as he always was when Cornelius was in a mind to talk about him._

_“It is that, Billy,” Cornelius patted his cheek, grinning, “don’t you forget it, eh?”_

Billy grins to himself, heat flushing up his neck and into the apples of his cheeks. 

“What has you smiling?” Peglar asks, shaking the line, “look lively, Gibson.”

He moves quickly to pick up the slack, “I was just thinking about something Mr Hickey mentioned to me the other day,” he says.

Peglar gives a rueful look, and nods knowingly. “Yes, he can talk, that one, I’ve heard him.”

“He is interested in things.” Billy says. 

“More than he ought to be. He’s a bellyacher, he never stops complaining. Nitpicking.”

“Mm.”

Billy doesn’t share this view. Cornelius inquires, certainly, and he likes a sure answer. But he listens keenly to everything you tell him, he learns quickly, he is sharper than he looks. 

Most men who come to sea are brought by some sense of adventure, and at first that was what struck Billy about Cornelius. His eyes are sharp and ambitious, he is eager to learn and to carve his own place out amongst the crew. But the better he comes to know him, the more Billy begins to wonder if he was mistaken. Cornelius may well be seeking something, but it is not adventure. 

Billy himself does not have a curious mind, it is another reason he is so suited to his position. He does not inquire; he minds his own tasks. The officers must know it about him, for they hand over their clothes each week without any concern for the stiff stains he will scour from their night shirts, the yellow stink in the armpits, the coarse black hairs caught in the weave; every private mark and trace a body leaves behind; evidence they are no more than beasts in in buttons and frills. 

The whites Billy bleaches with urine, and Mr Hickey had something to say on that score, too.

_“If you ever find yourself running short,” he laughed, lewdly pawing at his own crotch, “I’ll piss on those toff’s smalls for you.”_

Billy laughed along, guiltily, and that made Hickey smile so broad it hit Billy like an ache in his chest. 

Peglar is watching him again, brow furrowed. “You have taken him under your wing,” he says, a little lower than before, “Mr Hickey.”

“Perhaps I have,” Billy says, defensively, “somebody needs to.”

“I am only suggesting that if I have noticed, then so have others.”

“It’s his first voyage, everyone knows that. You remember how much there is to learn, what an ordeal those first months are.”

Peglar shakes his head, frowning as he tightens his bowline, “let him learn from Darlington, then, or Strong. It isn’t your lookout how he fares.”

The line is hung tight now, at a height they can both reach. They begin pegging the shirts up, one at a time. 

“You oughtn’t,” Billy says to Peglar, “it’s my duty.”

“I like to be helpful, and I’ve nothing else to do.” Peglar’s eyes dart into the middle distance, over the gunwale a mile away where Erebus stands black and hulking. Billy raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

“What will you do once your book is finished?” He asks.

“Oh, it will take me a while, yet. It’s easier to learn the ropes, I’ll tell you. I’m a bit of a dunce.”

“But once you’ve read it,” Billy presses, “surely not another book? Surely you must tire of only reading, and letters…”

“While I am at sea and between watches, what else is there?” Peglar shakes out a damp shirt, handing it to Billy. He doesn’t have the hands for it, doesn't know to arrange the seams properly, meaning the line will be spoilt, and he clutches at the fabric in a way that will cause unforgivable creases. Billy says nothing, but smooths the shirt out, running his own numb fingertips across the delicate pleats, flattening the arms neatly and pinching the collar.

“What I mean is,” he says as he works, “if Mr Bridgens was on Terror, or if you were on Erebus, then would you not--”

“I do not like your direction.” Peglar's wide mouth forms a long straight line beneath his whiskers.

“I am only trying to..." Billy fidgets as he searches for the words that will best explicate the depth of his strangely charged fellowship with Cornelius "...concerning Mr Hickey, it isn’t what you think. I like his manner, that is all. We have found something in each other, we have--”

“Mr Gibson,” Peglar says, louder this time, “this is dangerous talk, stop now.”

Billy does, at once. He glances behind himself, further aft. There are a few men standing not far off, but they are not paying them any attention. Peglar still has that set expression on his face, stony and vacant, he won’t look at Billy again. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said Bridgens’ name. 

They finish hanging the wet clothes in silence. By the end of it, Billy's gloves are soaked through, the skin of his fingers sore and tight.

"Thank you for your help, Mr Peglar." Billy says, picking up the wash tub. 

“I’ve said all I meant to say.” Peglar nods.

“And I heard you,” Billy ducks his head.

“Well, then,” Peglar’s face breaks into a smile, fanning out the bristles of his whiskers, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in genuine friendship. “We shall say no more about it. Good day, Mr Gibson.”

**Winter**

His knees get sore more quickly than they used to, he must be getting old. Billy feels he has aged a decade since Greenhithe; every muscle seems to creak, his bones feel soft as chalk. On Wanderer the brutish boatswain's particular punishment for the younger crew was to have them roll up their trousers and kneel on hard dry navy beans brought up from the stores. After only ten minutes that was enough to bring tears to your eyes, and the marks would remain for days. 

Gibson fancies he can feel those tiny cruel bruises now, as he bends over his washtub, scrubbing fiercely with a stiff bristled brush, churning the tepid water and soap into a filthy froth. 

He has drawn back his curtain to benefit from the lamp in the passageway outside, and long black shadows slide across his threshold, encroaching on his space as men pass hurriedly back and forth. There has not been so much activity on Terror since before Sir John died. This morning has the same sense of clamorous despair. Billy ignores it, and minds his tasks as always. He will stay put. Rats flee a ship, and Billy is not a rat.

He presses too hard with the brush and it slips out of his wet hands, sinking into the murky water, landing at the bottom of the tub with a miserable thud. He mutters a curse and reaches in for it, his fingertips puckered and too sensitive. Everything irritates, today.

“Billy?” 

He twists around too quickly, his spine screams in agony and the pain in his knees shoots up his thighs. He squints up at Peglar, standing in the doorway. 

“You’re in my light,” he says. He hasn’t spoken yet this morning, and finds his voice hoarse.

“What are you doing?”

“My work.”

“Aren’t you packing? We’ll be leaving quite soon.”

Billy shakes his head, plunging the longjohns he is washing into the water again, allowing the thin fabric to soak. “I can’t go anywhere, the officers.” He says, when Peglar doesn’t move from the doorway. 

“Lieutenant Little said that anyone who wishes to may leave.”

“I have to think of my career, I volunteered to serve them.”

“The ship will be empty...”

“Not empty,” Gibson can’t help glancing up, past Peglar towards the fo’c’sle. It is only for a split second before he corrects himself, looking down again, but Peglar is no fool, he has that reproachful look in his eyes. Billy clears his throat, shaking his head again, “Mr Jopson is staying. Armitage too. The marines, Hartnell, Manson...”

“I see,” Peglar says, folding his arms and jutting his chin upwards in a way Billy once found charming, “who else is staying, Mr Gibson?”

Billy says nothing. Christ, he hurts all over. It is still early in the day and all he wants is to lie back down in his bunk and cover his head. He heaves the sodden long johns out of the water again and twists hard, then shakes it out to evaluate his progress. The stains are still there, fainter, but present. Peglar sees them too.

“Gibson,” he hisses, stepping into Billy’s berth, leaning forward, “who does that belong to?”

Billy looks at him stupidly as the lamplight slips past Peglar once more and illuminates the bloodstains on the seat and legs of the garment. He twists it again, watching the rust coloured water drip from it. 

“You had better move on, Harry, as you said, you’ll be leaving soon.”

“I thought things had ended between you. You told me it was finished.”

“I am doing a good turn for a fellow seaman, I don’t know what you are implying.” 

“Surely after all that happened last night, surely you can see now what he is--”

“Last night indeed!” Billy throws down his brush, hard. It hits the opposite wall with a bang loud enough to echo through the tiny cabin. 

Peglar steps back again, blinking in surprise. “Billy…?”

“Oh, go away, Harry!” He chokes on his words, a hot liquid bubble rising in his throat. He cannot remember the last time he cried, it must have been years ago. He sits back, leaning against the drawers of his bunk, finally taking the weight off his knees. Pins and needles rush upwards, making his whole body sick and weak. 

“Peace, Billy” Peglar has regulated his voice, he sounds more like the boy Billy met on Wanderer, the first friend he ever had in the navy. “Things are difficult now, I know.”

“Ha!” Gibson snorts, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

He can still see it. What’s worse is he can still smell it. It was a filthy business. Deplorable. The blood, the torn flesh, the reek of it like copper, pervading the fo’c’sle. It didn’t go away when the captain finally dismissed them all, and Billy drew his curtain on his little alcove. All through the stifling dark night he was accompanied by the smell of Cornelius’s blood. 

Hickey’s long johns lie wet and cold and heavy in his lap, he plucks at them uselessly. He cannot put it right, the stains are as insidious as tar. 

“Don’t lose heart,” Peglar presses, “and don’t throw your lot in with someone who might--”

“I don’t need to justify myself to you, _Mister Peglar_.” He returns, bitterly.

He has been above reproach; he has finished all of his other duties, he has ensured that the lieutenants will have their poxy Sunday shirts, that their boots will shine and their pisspots are empty. Why should he not spend his leisure time helping a friend, when he has the skills to do so. 

He wonders if the situation had been different, if Peglar had been brought low, would Bridgens not tend to him? Without any visible trace of venereal desire between Harry and John, would their care for each other be so shocking, so illicit?

“Besides,” Billy raises his head to look Peglar in the eye, “we are both quite aware that you have your own reasons for crossing to Erebus. Do not pretend my weakness is not yours too.”

Peglar’s expression flattens, his eyes cloud over, and Billy recognises at once what he has done. Their shared history has worn too thin now, any damage will be irreparable. He looks down, he can’t bear it.

“I’ll say goodbye, then, Mr Gibson.”

Billy doesn’t look up or reply as Peglar withdraws. Once he’s alone he raises Hickey’s sodden underclothes once more to inspect. He will get fresh water, more soap, he will start again, he will draw out this stain if it kills him. 

* * *

Once Terror has cleared out of all but officers, marines and a handful of men, Billy is ready to hang the clothes to dry. He leaves the tub of water in his berth, soap and blood scumming the surface, creating a great dirty island floating in the middle. He’ll dump it out later in the heads, when he can summon the energy.

With a sack of damp clothes slung over his shoulder and a lantern in one hand he wends his way through the ship, navigating the dark and narrow passages, climbing down slanted ladder rungs. He has learnt to maneuver so easily across the perilously tilting deck that he wonders if he will ever be used to level ground again. 

It’s winter once more, the canvas is up and so he cannot hang clothes in the fresh air, even if there was anybody left to help him get a line up. He returns to the hold, near the engines. They are still warm, though they won’t be for much longer, he overheard Irving telling Johnson they would no longer need to heat the entire ship.

Dropping his burdens, Gibson busies himself about his labour, unspooling the length of twine he uses, securing it to a nail in one of the beams and then pulling out the cold wet garments one by one. He did a good job on Cornelius’s in the end, the florid rosettes of dried blood almost entirely bleached away. Hickey didn’t persuade him into doing it - in fact Hickey has never needed to persuade Billy into anything, despite what Peglar supposes - and despite what Billy himself told Lieutenant Irving, he thinks, cringing with guilt. Is that where Cornelius's troubles started?

He hangs them up at the far left of the line, nearest the engines. The fabric is coarse and thinner than the sturdy linen of Little and Hodgson’s shirts, so perhaps it will try all the faster. Once he is finished the muscles in his shoulders have begun to ache in concert with his knees and thighs. He blinks slowly, muddle headed and drowsy in the warm belly of the ship. 

No one else will need him for an hour or so, he risks a moment’s rest, and sits beneath the steaming laundy, leaning back on the bulkhead. He didn’t bring a magazine this time, but his eyes are too itchy to read. The carbolic soap has scoured away the scent of blood, replaced it with something faintly tarry. 

He sits folded up and staring at the waxy light of the lantern, thinking about Cornelius's skin, and trying not to think about Peglar's eyes. Weary and beleaguered by his own foolish choices, he begins to nod off into an unsatisfying shallow sleep.

“How goes it, Mr Gibson?”

He is startled awake, his head smacks against the bulkhead and pain rockets through his skull. Hickey peers down at him through the parted shirts. His back is very straight, he’s standing rather stiffly, “forgive me if I don’t sit down.”

Billy clambers to his feet, trying not to wince. “I fell asleep,” he says, rubbing the back of his head, which throbs sickly. “How are you?”

“Just seen MacDonald. More salt.”

Billy bites the inside of his cheek and regrets it as soon as he tastes metal. “I have your underthings here… they’ll be dry soon,” he gestures.

Hickey looks, and reaches out to stroke one leg of the clean long johns carelessly, “very kind of you, Mr Gibson.”

Billy nods in reply. He doesn’t know what else to say, or even if he needs to say anything. 

Cornelius cocks his head, listening, “quiet now, isn’t it?”

Billy listens too. The faint sound of solitary footsteps overhead, light on the deck. The iron engine furnaces purring like tigers, and the hideous ice, groaning and chewing at them. No one can disturb them now; they are quite alone. His eyes begin to sting again, he bows his head, sore knees trembling.

“Are you well, Billy?” Cornelius asks, quite out of nowhere. He places a hand on Billy's shoulder, just at the collar, where his fingers brush against Billy's neck. He smells of tobacco, blood and salt water. 

Billy looks at him, his eyes swimming. “Yes,” he mutters, “only tired.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
